Under Siege (15 page)

“Sir,” one of the tank commanders said. “How many tanks do we have in this sector?”

“We have twelve, all dug in like we are. And there are three more lines of twelve tanks behind us all due in and camouflaged. We control this area—about a half-mile wide. The thrust of the Iranians is a little more than three-quarters of a mile. We hold them off or they eat breakfast at your favorite Baghdad restaurant.”

“We have backup?”

“The tanks behind us, and we have U.S. air support. If we can’t stop them here, we go to our fall-back positions just in back of them. It’s a defensive setup that’s worked since El Alamein.”

“Where?” a voice asked on the radio.

“World War Two, British victory over the Germans in the town of that name in Egypt near Alexandria. A classic,” Captain Sabaawi said. “You should know about it.”

He could hear an aircraft overhead then even through the buttoned-up tank cover. He wanted to pop up and take a look, but he had given the order to keep the hatches closed and locked. Ahead, out the view port, he could see the hill that hid the Iranian tanks. Now he had a quick look as two jet fighters swept in and fired missiles at the enemy tanks. He heard one explosion, then a sympathetic roar as the rest of the tank’s rounds must have “cooked off” in the flaming mass of the missile explosion. Good, two fewer enemy tanks to worry about.

“Commanders, the enemy tank force is now crossing the line,” his battalion CO said. “They are less than two miles from our front tank row. This is the hard thrust we were expecting. A final try, a suicide venture if we have anything to say about it. They’ll be in range in another ten minutes. Good shooting, gentlemen.”

Less than a mile from the known positions of the Iraqi tanks, Captain Tariz Aziz stared at the scarred, rutted countryside. He awaited orders from his colonel. They hadn’t come. He knew the last battalion of tanks was rushing forward to replace the burned-out Lightning Thrust tanks. But when did he and his company move? He had six out of twelve tanks left. There’s no rearview mirror on a tank. When were his friends coming up and roaring past him? He would wait, and when they passed he would move out and follow them.

Without any other orders, those were the best he could figure. A moment later he heard the clank and grinding of a tank moving past him on the right. He hit his company radio.

“All right, this is our time. As soon as the tanks now passing us are all ahead, we will pull out and follow them. We’ll fill in any gaps in their line. Everyone report in.”

He listened as the five tank commanders gave their check-in call signs.

“Good, it should be shortly. We’ll close up to a hundred yards of the line ahead and follow. Let’s stay fifty yards apart and in a good line until we see where we fill in any gaps. There is still enemy air. We can’t do a damn thing about it, so we will charge ahead.”

Suddenly one of the T-52s ahead lunged forward and vanished.

“Tank trap dead ahead. All stop.” He watched another tank plunge into the hole. It must be a giant ditch for just this purpose. Must be a way around it. Then he heard them coming. Dozens maybe hundreds of artillery shells. The enemy tankers had test fired on those positions and set up concentrations before. If the tanks came they would stop at the barrier and move right or left. While they stopped and moved, the artillery would slam into the area, with a fire-for-effect bombardment, hoping that many of the rounds hit the tanks.

“Company, angle left, we’ll go around it. Left full speed, let’s get away from those artillery rounds.” Just as his tank turned, Aziz saw two of the front-line monsters blow up as artillery or enemy tankers hit them with rounds. He found a ravine and raced his driver into it. It led around to the left, the correct way. If only it went far enough. After a quarter of a mile it angled back south again, toward the tank trap. Only the ditch didn’t come this far.

He checked ahead and saw that he had flanked the other line of friendly tanks. He was in the outback by himself and his five tanks.

“Let’s go south and see what we can find,” he said on his company net. The six tanks angled out of the gully, which had flattened out and they saw nothing ahead but artillery smoke and the ranks of Iraqi tanks firing at the Iranian armor that charged around both ways to escape from the artillery and the tank trap.

They were far enough on the flank so he could spot the end of three rows of enemy tanks dug in on the hills. “See those Iraq T-62s to the right? Target them and fire when ready.”

Moments later he felt his own tank fire. He watched the targets and saw the enemy tank in the first row spout flames with a direct hit. It tried to back out of the revetment, but couldn’t move.

“Take a left turn go fifty, now,” he barked at his driver. He expected return battery fire at any second. When he looked he saw the second Iraq tank spouting flames, then rounds came at him and his tank jolted one way then another to escape the fire. One of his commanders yelled that he’d been hit and couldn’t move. Aziz turned and saw three men jump out of the tank and right into the middle of a high-explosive round that blew them into pieces.

“Back to the gully,” he shouted into the company radio net, and his tank turned and slammed back toward the protection of the gully. Two minutes later only three of the six tanks left in the company had reached safety. He thought of edging over the lip of the gully to see where the fight was, but he knew there would be six or eight Iraqi gunners just waiting for him to pop his rig over the top. Instead he opened the hatch.

“I’m going to do some recon,” he yelled at his men. “Just stay here and stay quiet. Be right back.”

He jumped off the tank and scrambled up the side of the ravine. He barely lifted his eyes over the lumps of dirt and rock and peered past a scraggly bush. Smoke everywhere.
On the three hills he could spot where the enemy tanks had dug in near the crests. He counted eleven tanks along one ridge alone. Three or four ridges. All protected but the very end ones. In front of him he also saw a dozen or more burning Iranian tanks. He wondered how many men he knew and had trained with were now dead or dying. The Iranian tanks kept moving forward toward the ridges at fifteen or twenty miles an hour. He ducked as an aircraft screamed out of the sky, fired a missile, and zoomed upward as the round hit an Iranian tank and blew it into a thousand pieces. He now counted sixteen tanks on the main line that were burning. He saw his own three tanks a hundred yards ahead. One had exploded with almost nothing left. The other two had been hit and stopped. He saw two of his crews working slowly to the rear, going from one small bit of cover to the next. The Iraqi tankers would not fire a big round at a pair of men.

He watched in fascination as the twenty Iranian tanks remaining charged across the half-mile at twenty miles an hour toward the enemy tank positions. If they weren’t hit they would overrun the enemy in five minutes. Another one in the line blew up. Down the line, a tank round tore off the tread on another T-54 and put it down for good, useless, its main gun angled to the rear.

Aziz felt the tears streaming down his face as he scrambled back down the bank and raced for his tank. He had to get back in the fight. He jumped up on the tank and slid into the hatch and closed and locked it in place.

Aziz grabbed his headset. “Company, the three of us are going to charge the flank of those Iraqis. Not sure how far we’ll get, but at least we’ll go down fighting. Are you with me?”

He heard the cheers over the radio.

Aziz took out the photo of his family and stared at it. Then he kissed the picture and put it back inside his helmet.
“All right, let’s charge out of this protection a hundred yards apart, then we’ll swing to the south more and angle at those bluffs. Hold fire until my first round goes off. I want to get close to those bastards who are killing all of our friends. Ready. Usual formation. Let’s roll.”

Twenty Iranian trucks had dropped off four hundred infantry troops less than a mile behind where the front line had been twenty minutes ago. The men formed up into platoons and strode forward on a quick march heading for the tankers ahead. Not even the commander of the battalion knew why they were there or what their objective was. He was told to take his men to the front lines and march forward until fired upon, then to go to ground, return fire, and move ahead, killing any of the enemy he saw.

Sergeant Jaafar Saadi kept his squad of eight men in the line of march, a spread-out assault formation that stretched over a hundred yards. He wasn’t sure what they were doing, or why. Lieutenant Rabbo, his platoon leader, said he wasn’t given a specific objective. They would sweep ahead and eliminate any enemy troops or tank crews that they found. Saadi wanted to ask what they did if they got ahead of the friendly tanks, but he didn’t have the nerve. He was afraid of Lieutenant Rabbo, and rightly so. He had seen the officer beat a corporal and send him to the hospital. Nobody knew exactly why the officer had flown into the rage.

Now they charged across this destroyed land with tanks shooting at each other somewhere in front. They could be as little as two miles ahead. He scowled, wondering what would happen. He didn’t think the major would let his men be run over by their own tanks. He wasn’t so sure about his lieutenant.

It wasn’t like this in the military academy. Everything done was accomplished because an order was given. A project, a study, a field exercise, physical training, learning to swim. Every move he made for four years in the school had been aimed at instilling discipline and respect for the authority of his officers.

He knew that combat would be hectic and unsure, and that there would be wild moments, sometimes lasting for hours. Strange duty and unusual tasks and danger, and that he might even face death today. Now in this total confusion, he didn’t know if they were winning or losing. He had no idea how many tanks they had or if they were better than those that Iraq used. Aircraft left him totally at a loss.

Just then he heard a jet fighter screaming overhead at less than two thousand feet. He didn’t know if it was one of his or an enemy. He did know that in a war there was a chance for quick advancement in rank. Especially in combat where men ahead of you might get wounded or killed and the next man in line had to step up. He had a chance to lead his own platoon if everything worked out right. Not that he would shoot Lieutenant Rabbo, but he knew it had happened in wars before this one. He looked ahead and saw a small house. What should they do? Did they stop and clear it? Did they work around it and leave it? Maybe they should burn it down so no one could hide in it. He looked at Lieutenant Rabbo and motioned at the house.

“Burn it,” his platoon leader said.

Sergeant Saadi pointed to two of his men and they ran forward. He pulled a white phosphorous grenade from his combat webbing and the three of them flattened themselves against the front wall. He motioned for one man to open the door. As soon as it was open, Saadi popped the handle on the grenade and let it arm, then he threw it inside the door. All three charged away from the structure and caught up with their unit. The grenade went off, showering the inside of the building with burning phosphorous, setting it
on fire in an instant and burning through everything that it stuck to.

He got back in the assault formation and motioned for two of his men to move forward to keep the line straight. Ahead he saw nothing but small bushes not a foot off the ground, and lots of sand and rocks. The land right here wasn’t even good for grazing goats. Maybe after a few good rains. He heard the shells exploding ahead. How far was he now from friendly tanks? They could roll ahead twenty to thirty miles an hour. Where were the enemy tanks?

He looked at his lieutenant walking forward in line with the rest of them. No. He wasn’t the kind of officer an enlisted man asked questions of. Wait and see. Wait and die. No, he would not die. His mother would never forgive him. He was the fourth generation in his family to serve in the military. He would not be the last. He must survive and maintain the line.

They came over a small rise and could see the tanks ahead. The Iranian tankers were scattered, charging around, not going forward anymore. He saw smoke and burning tanks everywhere. He could smell the oil burning and the terrible stench of scorched human flesh. Lots of Iranians had died here today. He would not be one of them.

Something screamed down out of the sky and exploded fifty feet in front of them. One man bellowed in fear and pain and fell, shrapnel from the tank round shredding both his legs just above the knee. A medic dropped out of line and stayed with the man as the rest of the troops moved forward.

“A stray round,” someone shouted. “They aren’t shooting at us.”

Maybe. But for a stray it came damn close to wiping out twenty of them. An order came and the men moved apart putting ten yards between men. This way a lucky round wouldn’t kill thirty of them.

Now and then he could see aircraft in the bright blue sky
above. Two angled toward each other high overhead. Another one swept in from the south and sent a long spear at one of the tanks nearest him. The tanker turned sharply, but the missile turned with him and daggered into the side of the machine, penetrated inside, and exploded. Secondary explosions rocked the whole landscape for a moment and the sound battered his ears. The tank blew into a thousand pieces. Some sailed near the advancing troops two hundred yards away.

They found tank crews now hiding in shell holes, huddled behind burned-out tanks, waving at them for water, for medical help. The infantrymen marched stoically ahead. Following orders. The men were just doing what their officers told them to do. Saadi’s job: do what Lieutenant Rabbo ordered him to do. Now that was to march forward and into whatever danger was out there. Hell, probably.

The Iranian tanks slowly organized what was left of their battalion and moved forward again. This time at top speed—thirty miles an hour, Saadi figured. They rammed right up to the front of the range of hills and fired point blank at the tanks. The Iraqi armor now had guns too high to depress enough to hit them. Five, six, then seven of the Iraqi tanks in the first row died in flames.